


Three’s A Crowd

by nowhere_dawn_death_phan



Category: Torchwood, Warehouse 13
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-03
Updated: 2020-10-03
Packaged: 2021-03-08 01:02:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,752
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26797048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nowhere_dawn_death_phan/pseuds/nowhere_dawn_death_phan
Summary: Warehouse Agent David Wolcott has run into a spot of bother. Or rather, three of them. John Hart, Bennett Sutton and Jack Harkness, to be precise. To make matters worse, he has a history with one of them, and it’s not a good one. He’s bitter, tired and pissed off. And nobody seems to care.
Kudos: 6





	Three’s A Crowd

David Wolcott rubs his nose, shifting a little on the spot and sighing deeply. “Just start from the beginning, please.”  
Three voices rise up at once, and Wolcott holds up a gloved finger in a call for silence. “Just one of you.” He scans the trio, trying to decide which of them is more likely to give him a straight answer, and then points to the one on the left. “You. Speak.”  
The one on the left, who appears to be identical to the one in the middle in everything but dress merely shrugs, and mutters something about just passing through. The one in the middle snorts at this, and the one on the right steps backwards out of line and further into the shadows to yell a phrase that Wolcott doesn’t recognise, but it sounds vulgar enough that he thinks he gets the gist.  
The one on the left shoots a glare across. “The gentleman asked me to speak.”  
The one in the middle raises his hand. “If I may interject? We-” he gestures between himself and the man on the right, “-weren’t actually supposed to be here, I had my coordinates set for somewhere else. The calibration is just a little off, this thing is rather old.” He starts fiddling with something on his wrist, a black strap with a sort of interface that Wolcott can’t quite make out.  
He reaches into his back pocket for his Tesla just in case, and is surprised when it isn’t there.  
“Ah, are you after this old thing?” The man on the left spins the gun on his finger, smiling at Wolcott. “You really should pay more attention to your surroundings, you know? Funny little trinket, this. Do you think it’s worth much?”

Wolcott scowls, adjusting his hat to hide his discomfort. He has no idea what these three are playing at or where they’ve come from. What they’re doing must be in violation of something, he just isn’t sure what. He quite wants to send the one on the left, a tall man in plain Victorian dress, to the bronzer. Not forever of course, but just long enough to teach him a lesson.  
“Play fair.” The one in the middle says firmly, snatching the gun off him and tossing it back across to Wolcott, who fumbles to catch it and then slips it into his jacket pocket without thinking. “The poor boys only doing his job.”   
“Where was that attitude when you shot my doctor?” The man on the right asks, barging the one in the middle with his shoulder.  
“I’ve seen you before.” Wolcott says, his eyes on the man on the right. He’d been hoping that it wasn’t him, that the gloom of early evening was making him see things that weren’t there, but then he’d spoken, and that voice had made everything clear. “Jack Harkness, right? The man who can’t be killed.”  
Jack pretends to doff a hat he isn’t wearing and then holds out a hand. “The very same. It’s been too long, Mr Wolcott.”  
“Not long enough. You got HG killed.”  
Jack drops his hand, and a look of hurt flashes across his face for a moment before he smiles again. “You’re still singing the same old tune, then?”  
“And it’s playing better than ever.”

The one in the middle looks between them for a moment. “You two know each other?”  
“Friend of a friend,” is all Jack says, putting his hands back into the pockets of that old military jacket, the one Wolcott remembers all too often seeing hanging on the coat stand in the Wells’ drawing room.   
“He’s with you.” Wolcott says, pointing at the one in the middle. It very clearly isn’t a question.  
Jack nods. “John Hart, this is David Wolcott. David Wolcott, John Hart.”  
John Hart raises a hand. “Pleasure.”  
“What about this one?” Wolcott takes his Tesla out of his pocket and raises it, levelling it at the only man who doesn’t yet have a name.   
“I’m the Duke of….Bedford.” He says quickly.  
“I thought you broke off that engagement?” John stage whispers, turning to look at him. “The only thing you got away with was the chalice, remember?”  
“Right, of course.” The man nods, clearly thinking. “I’m the Marquess of Schleswig.”  
“Schleswig doesn’t exist anymore, and Marquess is a British term anyway. Get a better excuse.”  
He turns to glare at John, dropping his hands in frustration. “Good god, it’s like you want me to get shot.”  
“Maybe I do. Where’s that wife of yours when we need her?”  
“Didn’t you hear, she stopped keeping track of me after Napoleon put a price on my head. How do you think I got away with travelling with you?” 

Wolcott adjusted his Tesla in his grip. “So, you are with them. No friend of Jack’s is a friend of mine, so I suggest you give me a name.”   
The man looks across at Jack. “Is he Torchwood?”  
Jack looks back at him and then shakes his head. “He’s part of the Warehouse.”  
The man laughs and holds out a hand, fingers extended. “Why didn’t you say so? My dear boy, I’m the Count of Saint Germain, though my current alias is Bennett Sutton.”   
Wolcott can see the ring on the finger of his outstretched hand, gold and chunky with a gem of purple stone set deep into it. He looks up at Sutton and then nods, lowering his gun. “Apologies.”  
Sutton shrugs airily, putting his hands back into his pockets. “You weren’t to know. I am trying to keep out of the limelight a little more these days. One scandal every five years is about enough for me.”  
“And he’s traipsing around after us, that’s enough to make anyone suspicious of him.” John points out with a dry laugh.   
“On behalf of the Warehouse, I apologise for the fate of your-”  
“Don’t. I was the one who came clean about what he did. He deserved what he got.” Sutton takes his hands out of his pockets and studies the ring, twisting it gently on his finger as if deep in some thought.   
Jack frowns, glancing between them. “You two know each other?”  
“I know of him.” Wolcott says. “His brother’s Paracelsus.”   
Sutton nods. “The caretaker of Warehouse Nine at the height of the Ottoman Empire.”  
“Murderer of a village of six hundred people.”   
“He got his dues.”   
“We all do in the end.” Wolcott says, and there’s an edge to his tone that Sutton recognises all too well. It’s the bitter edge of grief that hasn’t quite faded. 

John sighs and pretends to yawn, stretching his arms out and drawing everyone's eyes back to him. “Sorry, your idle chit chat was just getting a little too boring for me. I liked it better when we were threatening each other, can’t we go back to that?”  
“If it wasn’t for the fact I know it would be a waste of bullets, I’d have slain you right where you stood.” This comment is directed at Jack, and it’s said with such an icy ferocity that it almost takes John by surprise for a moment. A friend of a friend indeed.   
“Marvellous.” He says brightly, rubbing his hands together. “Now then, are you going to arrest us, and if so, rope or handcuffs? Because I’m more of a rope person myself but I’m sure I can-”  
In a moment, Wolcott has his gun trained on John. It’s a real gun this time, an old fashioned six shot pistol made of gleaming metal. “I’ve said already, no friend of Jack’s is a friend of mine. My connection to the Count makes him a friend, but no such luxury is applied to you. And you still haven’t told me what you’re doing here.” This last sentence is directed again at Jack, who’s watching the whole situation as if he’s finding it rather amusing. He might well laugh, John thinks. He isn’t the one being held at gunpoint.   
“We weren’t supposed to be here.” Jack says. “We had the coordinates set for somewhere else, we’re showing your friend the Count all the wonders of time and space. You know I would never have come back willingly.”  
Wolcott looks at Sutton, and then nods. He has no real connection to the Count, only that his brother stands beside Helena in that hellish backroom. He’s not sure why it feels so much like a betrayal that he should associate himself with Jack, but it does.  
John, who has seemingly gotten bored of being held at gunpoint now Wolcott is no longer looking at him, holds out a flask. “Whiskey?”  
“I want you out of here by morning.” Wolcott says, still looking at Jack. He puts the gun back into his pocket, which John is in half a mind to tell him is a rookie mistake, and one he won't be making twice.   
Jack nods. “You won’t see me again.”  
“You made that promise last time.”  
“I mean it now.”  
“You’d better.”   
“She loved you, David.” Jack’s voice softens a little. He can’t harbour any resentment towards Wolcott for blaming him. It wasn’t really his fault, he knows that, but Wolcott can’t stand the idea that Helena chose to do it to herself. Jack doesn’t mind being his scapegoat. After all, it’s not like he’ll ever see him again. Or if he does, it won’t be when his name is David Wolcott. 

“Gentlemen, shall we depart?” Sutton moves closer to John, putting his hand on his shoulder. Getting the picture, John begins fiddling with the strap on his wrist, muttering something about getting it right this time. Jack steps up to John’s right hand side and puts his arm around his shoulder. John looks up at him for a moment before returning to his task, but Jack’s eyes never leave Wolcott’s face.

Then suddenly they’re gone. There’s no drama, no flashing lights or fire or the sound of time and space warping around them. They’re just gone. There’s a sort of loneliness that comes from finding himself alone on a dark London street corner, and if this had been even a few months before he’d have gone running back to Helena’s house and told her everything and let her comb her fingers through his hair while she tutted sympathetically. But he’s realising now there’s something empty about talking to somebody that can’t talk back, and as David Wolcott lifts his head to look at the sky, it starts to rain.


End file.
